Sick
by Rent-Fanfictions
Summary: It occurs to you that he won't make it through the night, and tears sting your vision, turning the person you love more than anything else in the world into a blur. Roger Davis doesn't cry, but for him, you would do anything.


**So this was written simply because as I was sitting on my kitchen counter, eating stale cereal in my boxers at 12, happily enjoying the fact my sister was working the night shift at her job and wasn't around to harass me, I had an idea. Enjoy.**

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It occurs to you that you never really say "I love you" to each other.

Whether it's because you aren't _that_ couple, the ones you two used to make fun of drunkenly when you watched awful romance movies together, the mushy, clingy kind, or because your usual stoic, cold, and tough ego would rarely allow it, you weren't sure.

But then again, maybe it was because you communicated it in different ways.

It occurs to you that saying "I love you", plain and simple, doesn't suit you both very well. Every before you dated, "I love you's" were exchanged only when you were to be separated for long periods of time, and even then, there would be an awkward pause and a "are we good?" Just to make sure things weren't weird.

The only time where this was the case, was when you abandoned your life in the city, and ran to Santa Fe. Wanting to spend time some place that didn't stink of pollution, and suffering. You got homesick, and returned, only to have Mark instantly take you back by the whole end of the ordeal.

Even if it was rare, you had been met with the tightest embrace of your life, and Mark's gentle voice muttering in your ear. You couldn't pick up much, but from the babble, little bits and pieces of "_Asshole.." _and "_Don't **ever** do that again" _could be heard. Maybe even little utterances of "_I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you." _almost like a song that swirled around you, chased away your demons like some sort of guard dog, reminding you that even if you'd been told otherwise your entire life by the wrong people, that you weren't ever alone.

It occurs to you that you're far from romantic, angelic, or perfect. Those words get under your skin, make you feel uncomfortable, as if the person who spoke them first designed them specifically with the purpose of irritating, and invalidating you in mind.

You don't write Mark poems. You don't cook romantic dinners for the small man to walk in on (you'd burn them anyway. Lord knows you can't cook.) You don't leave a candle lit trail to your bedroom on Valentines day.

You sleep all day, and hog the covers, and use up the hot water. You put hot sauce in Mark's tea, and dump ice over the curtain when he showers, and you swear if it was anyone else, they would have got a restraining order, or left you by now.

But not Mark. He seemed to enjoy it. Enjoy you for _you_. The kid loved every bit and piece of you, even the awful ones. You aren't sure how to respond to so much positive affection at first, so you lash out. It occurs to you that you _always _lash out.

It occurs to you that Mark's way of saying "I love you" is channeled into other things.

Like the way he makes your coffee, just the way he knows you'll enjoy it.

Or the way he never forces you to go out, or see people, because he knows how you feel when it seems like the world is crashing down around you, and you want nothing more than to be left behind, or forgotten.

It occurs to you that "Take your AZT" is just another way of pleading: "_Don't leave me.."_

It occurs to you that when you answer with a snarky: "Okay, mom…" it's just another way of whispering back: "_I'm holding on as long as I can…"_

Giving. Sacrifice. Loyalty.

It occurs to you that these words must have been spoken with the idea of Mark in mind. You don't pick up on it at first. Collins had brought home this.. _child _by city standards, innocent, and nervous, and shaky. Hell, even unable to speak to _you, _the guy who was the worst with words for long periods of time.

It did occur to you, though, that when things started getting tough, when they found April still in a pool of water and her own blood, when your band collapsed, when you fell into an abyss of sleepless nights, and bouts of drug induced paranoia, that Mark would give up anything for you. It's obvious when he offers to sell his _camera_, the thing that is his left hip for Christ sake, to be able to feed you when you two start running out of food, and money, that the small man would sacrifice anything.

It occurs to you as you gently lift over a damp towel to Mark's scorching forehead, that he's running out of time. No money. No heat. No food. Mark sick. No money… No heat… No food…

The words dance around you brain, and they laugh at you. Taunt you. Remind you that if it wasn't for you, Mark could still be that innocent boy you had met years ago, who smelled of soap, and brushed brightly with a squeak when anyone even attempted to get close enough to kiss him.

You are given another reminder of how dire your situation is when Mark stops eating.

It's sensible enough at first, and you chalk it up to the flu that's currently assaulting his body, and probably taking away his appetite in the process. However, a week later, you aren't so sure.

It occurs to you that Mark's stomach is growling like some sort of caged animal, begging for something, anything of substance. When you push whatever food you can scrape together to him, the filmmaker shakes his head, because you know he would rather _die _than have to believe you're going hungry when he isn't.

"You haven't eaten yet today."

His voice is hoarse, and you have a sick feeling that it sounds like it could give out any moment. That _he _could give out any moment.

"Mark, you're sick. Please…" you're driven to _begging _him, now. Roger Davis doesn't beg, not anyone, but for him, you're willing to try. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

He forces a smile. A pained smile that tells you how much he really is suffering. You want to shove the food down his throat, get him to cooperate somehow, but your own body betrays you, for your stomach is growling too. Of course it is. You haven't eaten in two days.

You curse yourself. With everything you have. Any attempt you can to get him to eat goes unsuccessful, and in the end, whatever food you have left ends up on the floor as you send the plate crashing into the wall. You curl in on yourself.

You don't know when you got here. When you were both struggling to find the will to even survive another day. When a roommate turned to a foe, when your heat was shut off. When you both could hear the other crying at night, begging for the agony of freezing slowly to stop, wincing at the hunger pains that kept you from whatever merciful numbness sleep would provide.

Life's not fair. The life of a bohemian, however, is even worse.

You feel his hand on your shoulder, and you can't help but spin around to face him. He's pale, ghostly pale. Not the kind you would tease him in the summer for. The kind where you _know _he needs a hospital, and now, but you can't afford it. You can't even afford a loaf of bread. Not fair, not fair, not fair.

You know he won't make it through the night.

"I'm fine…" he lies, his eyes slipping closed, as if just _speaking _is taking a lot out of him. You know it must be. He hasn't eaten, hasn't slept. He's only suffered.

You do the only thing you can think to do. You climb under the covers with him, and hold him. Hold him so tight, you wonder if he can breathe. He doesn't seem to mind, for he instantly cuddles up to your warmth. You can feel almost every bone in his body through his skimpy t-shirt.

You press a shaky kiss to his head, and as his shallow breathing gently tickles your neck, you can't help but feel tears starting to sting your vision, turning the one person you love more than anything into a blur.

Roger Davis doesn't cry, but for him, you would do anything.

It occurs to you that he stops breathing in the middle of the night, fingers that were once curled tightly into the fabric of your jacket now falling. Still. Too still.

It occurs to you now that your world has stopped. Your life is over. You hold him close, and even if he can't feel your warmth, or your love anymore, you're still willing to try. For him, you would try it all.

This moment was rare.

_I love you, I love you, I love you…._


End file.
